


In the Name of Love

by adventuresofmeghatron



Series: Reclamations [3]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: A little smangsty as well, Awkward Sexual Situations, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff, M/M, Multi, New Relationship, Not smut but definitely smujacent, Polyamory, Polyamory Negotiations, Sexual Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-17
Updated: 2020-09-17
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:14:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26517280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adventuresofmeghatron/pseuds/adventuresofmeghatron
Summary: Deacon, MacCready, and Natasha have been together for a few months. This isn’t the first time they’ve done this. An unexpected bedroom mishap leads to some teasing and reflection.
Relationships: Deacon/Robert Joseph MacCready/Female Sole Survivor
Series: Reclamations [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1944889
Comments: 16
Kudos: 30





	In the Name of Love

It rips from her throat like a scratch on a record.

One word, and the whine of the bed frame creaks to an abrupt halt. MacCready’s breath catches in her ear where it whispered, light and tantalizing, seconds before. Deacon, with his head still framed between her thighs, peers up at her with a shit-eating grin that spreads as wide as her legs. 

Natasha clamps a hand across her mouth. Fever heat scorches her cheeks, but it’s not the _good_ kind.

She feels the laughter rippling in Mac’s ribs before she hears it. And then she _hear_ s it. He buries his face against her ear, scratching her neck with his stubble, as the sound floods the room. The hand that hides her mouth moves to cover the rest of her face. Mac tries, halfheartedly, to peel her out of her shelter, but she rolls away from him, wondering if the press of shame would be enough to dig a hole straight through the mattress.

Deacon cracks with a sound like snapping twigs, and then he’s laughing at her, too. Nat peeks through the veil of her fingers enough to aim a disgruntled kick in his direction. But her act of protest is turned abruptly against her. Deacon catches her heel in his hand. Gray-blue eyes find her face with a look that’s still heavy-lidded and _knowing_. Slowly, he massages his thumb down the sole of her foot. Nat curls into the tousled sheets, hating the little moan that hums in her throat, hating that this only eggs them on further, hating that she’s still caught in bed between them and not buried at the bottom of the ocean, or somewhere far more appropriate. 

They catch a fresh wave when they glance at each other, falling nearly silent as the laughter rattles through them. Natasha’s eyes narrow as they carry on. Time for a new approach. She scoots to a seat and grabs the pillow from behind her head.

“You guys are so mean!”

Natasha chucks the pillow. Deacon narrowly dodges her projectile. It slumps against the back wall in the same manner as her shoulders: with a huff muffled by softness.

“I don’t know,” MacCready drawls, leaning forward on his elbows. “You think we’re mean, Deeks?”

Deacon licks his lips before he speaks. Natasha feels the motion more than she sees it, like an electric current down her spine. “Doesn’t taste like it. So... _Dac_ , huh?”

Ugh. _Ugh._ Ugh!!!

There’s nowhere to hide, pinned between Mac’s cheeky smile and Deacon’s matching grin. She only has herself to blame for that one. _That’s what you get for dating the spy_ and _the sniper._

Now, she’s caught in their crosshairs all over again. Which is how this afternoon’s _activities_ all started in the first place. Rain rolled in on a brisk wind, pouring buckets down the hillside. She’d come in, drenched and dirty, from the garden out back. She’d hung her coat by the door, next to Mac’s and Deacon’s. Kicked her shoes off beside theirs. Nearly slid on the socks someone had discarded in the middle of the living room. Raised an eyebrow at the abandoned pair of pants that lay in a heap nearby. Followed that trail to find a crumpled shirt on the floor near the mantle.

She went to peel out of her soaked clothes, but other hands beat her to it. 

“Hey.” 

Deacon’s voice curled like smoke in her ears. A sound she wanted to taste and smell and drink into every part of her. Feathery light and wispy. Like it might float away if she moved too fast. So she didn’t. She let him steer her by the hips to face him. Let him free the zipper of her jeans. Let him leave soft, slinking kisses up her neck, all the while knowing he could taste her pulse thrumming in her throat. 

By the time he’d reached her lips, her pants were only half undone, but long forgotten. Deacon twined his fingers in her hair and kissed her dizzy. 

They backed against something, _someone_ solid. Someone warm. Someone grazing coarse stubble down her neck and painting over the prickle with long, attentive kisses. Mac finished the job Deacon started with her pants. 

“Missed you,” Mac panted in her ear.

MacCready’s voice was velvet on her neck, soft and deep and dark with a hint of roughness. Like if someone brushed it the wrong way, that roughness is the only thing they’d feel. They’d never know that other side, that rich mind, that gentle heart, that tender soul that dwells beneath those edges.

Good thing _she_ knows the right way. 

Nevermind the fact that she was only out for a couple hours. Or that Deacon and Mac seemed to have been missing some clothes already. Maybe they’d started without her. Maybe that idea sent excited little pinpricks of static dancing on her skin. Nevermind that she was wet and filthy. They seemed to like her that way.

Kissing in the living room led to shedding the rest of their clothes in the hallway. Which led to Mac filling her head with dirty whispers, and Deacon using his mouth in one of her favorite ways. And then, she was dizzy all over again in the sweetest of spirals.

Spirals of touch and taste and tongues and tenderness that have taken over her nights and days. Spirals of something new taking root where nothing else could. The three of them, living life in colors she didn’t know existed before.

When her hands clawed into the sheets and the haze of pleasure drowned her brain, her mind reached feebly for some word, some _name_ for this thing. This unexpected, amazing, shiny new thing between the three of them.

“Dac” was what it came up with. She’d yelled “Dac”, in the throes of orgasm. Not Deacon. Not Mac. _Dac_. At the top of her fucking lungs.

“So who _is_ this mystery guy?” Deacon ponders. “Bobby, it sounds like some dapper gentleman is trying to steal away our girl. Might need to cook up some countermeasures.”

Nat brings her knees to her chest, suddenly longing for the shelter of the pillow she’d used for other purposes. A fresh bloom of pink floods her cheeks.

Mac sniffs skeptically. “ _Dac_ sounds like a punk to me.”

“Well she _is_ dating you, so that would be consistent with her taste in men.”

“Hey! She’s dating you, too!”

“I have been known to express some punk-like qualities from time to time.”

“Yeah, I’ll say. Smart mouth.”

Deacon doesn’t get another word in edgewise. Mac loops an arm around his waist and tugs him up and towards him until they’re both kneeling on the bed, chest against chest. Her mercenary lover grips the back of Deacon’s neck and drags him into a deep, hungry kiss. 

For a moment, Natasha forgets her festering embarrassment. A different type of heat sears on her skin. There’s a soft, wet sound when they part. MacCready teeths at the corner of Deacon’s mouth. She watches the pull of lips between them, and wonders if Deacon still tastes like her. 

Deacon's breath leaks out in a low moan that’s muffled when Mac reels him closer. Nat follows the slope of their chests, the bend of arms and twist of muscle in MacCready’s abdomen when Deacon fits his hand in between their bodies. From this angle, all she sees next is the flex in Deacon’s arm, and the corresponding buckle in MacCready’s hips. It’s Deacon that’s holding them steady and upright, now. There’s a lazy, lusting smirk on Deacon’s face. Something near a growl tears from Mac’s body as he arches towards the touch, but the shift of Deacon’s hand grows achingly slow.

“Easy there, Bobby.” Deacon’s murmur simmers over MacCready’s neck.

The sound Mac makes next is almost enough to cast the last prickles of shame aside. She feels it echo in her body sure as Deacon feels Mac twitch and tremble in his hands. 

They’re perfect, the two of them, tangled together beside her. Something singes in her stomach, like scalding coffee on her tongue when she’s too impatient to let it cool. It dulls the sweetness of the moment, an aftertaste that lingers long after the burn. They make it look so easy, like it should be. Like it usually is. 

Except, sometimes it’s not. Sometimes, this thrilling little party they’ve been throwing gets chaotic. And confusing. And difficult.

Sometimes it’s late nights lit by candlelight, with her eyes flickering back and forth to the door in rhythm with the flame. Worrying over the time slipping through her fingers. How Deacon should’ve been home by now.

Sometimes it’s fingers tracing waxy crayon marks on paper. Wondering if _two_ more might fit into the picture next to Duncan and Daddy.

Sometimes it’s the stagnant strangeness when Deacon calls her songbird, or when MacCready’s voice gets feathery, faint on her neck like Deacon’s. Or, God forbid, they put on a whole show. Date night dinner somewhere scavenged but special. Velvet curtains hiding wasteland wreckage. Bathtub wine dressed up in a vintage bottle. All the stops. All the moves. Like they were throwing every last bit of effort into keeping her.

Like…like _Nate_ used to do. In those sparse moments where he fumbled for her.

Sometimes it’s trying to say the names of both your lovers at the same time, and mangling them both horribly. She could bob and weave around barbs and back talk all day. But this mix of foreign and familiar has her stumbling. She tripped and fell face-first on a stone that never blocked her path _before_. Suddenly, the world she knew had shifted. She felt brand new and bare and bruised between them.

They sink down and back into the bed in the same moment Natasha slides out of it. Deacon settles over MacCready, shifting so he’s propped against Mac’s side, opposite to her. Their lips find each other’s again. Mac’s fingers brush the fading warmth where she lay moments before. It’s an open invitation, but one she forgoes in favor of the cold floor beneath her bare feet. Natasha pads quietly for the door. She doesn’t bother to grab clothes, but when she’s nearly there, someone grabs _her_. 

Deacon’s fingers fold between her own and slowly drag the skin between her knuckles. For a moment, the soothing touch is enough to dull the itch of nerves chewing away at her insides. Deacon rubs at the stiffness collected in the meat of her palm before his thumb slides to the pulse thrumming fitfully in her wrist. He lingers there. She feels the gentle imprint against her veins.

“Wha-- where you going gorgeous?” Mac says groggily, as if waking from a pleasant dream. 

“Just need a breather,” Nat answers, chillier than she intends to.

A prickle of worry cuts past the heady fog in MacCready’s eyes. “You’re not really mad, right?”

Mad? No. Suddenly, abruptly terrified? Well…

Deacon’s fingers tap lightly on the inside of her wrist. Their own little morse code. It makes Nat shiver. She knows Deacon sees it. He sees everything. Knows her so well already, it makes her wonder if they were ever truly strangers. 

_Are you okay?_ Those two little taps are asking. 

Natasha gulps down the lump in her throat. “I gotta pee.” Also true. 

When she presses for the door, she hears MacCready sputter a mangled protest.

“Just give her a minute,” Deacon murmurs.

\----------

The hallway bites like winter. Forgoing clothes was not the best of plans, after all. Natasha snatches a discarded shirt from the floor -- Deacon’s -- and slips it on. The bathroom’s just across the hall. She shuffles there, rubbing friction down her arms as she goes. The door closes with a soft click.

Dim yellow light flickers to life in the bulb strung up above the mirror when she flips the switch. Her reflection warps across the veiny edges of the salvaged glass they’d puzzle-pieced together. Through the web of spindly cracks across the surface, she watches a small, secret smile crack the anxious eyes staring back at her.

She’d come in here to hide and nurse her battered pride, but they may as well have followed her. They’re there, in the mirror, sure as she can see herself. _Two_ boyfriends. One of which has peppered her body in blooming love bites, while the other, far more discreet, has left no such evidence. But she can see him, still, in the rosy color on her cheeks.

Deacon’s to blame for the state of her hair. If the tangled nest is any evidence, he’s already abusing his reinstated hair-touching privileges. She chews at her lip. She can’t say she _hates_ that he’s abusing it.

And the flush on her neck is leftover from Mac’s stubble, the space where it scraped before his lips followed over to soothe. She feels the ghost of that roughness, now, as her fingertips map the path he traced.

All of this affection, wrecked over her body, woven among the scars and ripples of other sorts of wreckage. Pieced together from bits of old to make something new, like the mirror. 

MacCready has plenty of scars, too. She knows them all like constellations. Deacon is a different sky; she’s still learning his. Learning Mac, again, too, when she watches Deacon find the things she thought she knew. But seeing them see each other, it’s like she’s looking at them _both_ for the first time.

Like everything, all of this, even the familiar, is for the first time.

The secret smile starts to fade in the mirror. She sees the fear flicker back to life on her face.

It _is_ the first time. For all them. None of them have done this before. None of them have had more than one partner, partners that are _also_ partners with each other. In a cruel way, it helps that they all came in pieces. Easier to find ways to fit to each other, or to forge new ones. If they’d never had to shift around, to find ways to _be_ in lives they never imagined living, Nat’s not sure they would’ve been brave enough to imagine _this_.

This pretty little picture of mornings waking up wrapped around each other. The little leap in her chest when she sees them kiss and watches the tension slough from their shoulders. The flutter of fire between her thighs when they tug her in between the two of them. The quiet comfort of sitting, just _being_ beside one another.

It was one of those easy mornings when all they sat down and talked about being together. What that picture could look like. But those earnest, tender words didn’t answer all the questions that cropped up since, like stones in the road. Questions they didn’t think to ask. Questions that come from having _two_ lovers. 

Like those sizzling moments where all her foggy mind can think is yes, _yes_ , that sounds incredible. But... _how_ , though? And the myriad of sexual somethings she’d never heard of from forays with only one partner, let alone two men. 

Is the _one_ lover going to officially move in already, or is he gonna just keep leaving pieces of himself underfoot like he’s leading them on a scavenger hunt? Nat catches the glint off a pair of sunglasses folded on the countertop. There’s another pair on the bedside table. And another one on the mantle. And one on the windowsill in the living room. How many pairs does the one lover come with, exactly?

And, when you have two lovers, _whose_ name are you supposed to say when you orgasm?

Well, she’s ruled out at least one answer to that one. It’s _not_ both at the same time.

Natasha stiffens against the waves of want and worry and wilted pride, shoulders drawn up to her ears. If Mac were here, he’d chide her for poor posture, the same way he’d scold her when they’d roamed the wasteland, wandering between jobs and ducking out of trouble by the barest hair. He’d hold her, the way he did that first time when he fixed her aim. The way he lied about when he said he wouldn’t always be around to. The way he always does when fear eats the best of her.

He’d grip her steady, tug her back and tight to his chest, roll her arm down and say--

“Shoulder,” Mac’s whisper warms her ear. He wraps an arm around her stomach while the other works at the knotted muscle on her back. When the stubborn stiffness won’t let up, he uses the heel of his palm to dig circles into her skin. Beneath his ministrations, sure enough, her shoulder eases down. The last bite of nerves collects like needles in her chest as she lets out a long exhale.

“You snuck up on me,” Nat says softly. “You two tire each other out?”

There’s an apprehensive edge to the tiny lift on his lips. “No,” he murmurs between kisses on her neck. Each one draws out the tautness clinging to her spine. Little by little, she untangles beneath his touch. “We were worried about you.”

Oh. _Oh._ Well...that makes sense. If she took two seconds to think about it before plunging down a tunnel of unrelenting self-shame. She catches his face in the mirror. He’s wearing a look that’s familiar. Familiar, because it matches hers. Nervous. Vulnerable. 

Mac bends to kiss her knuckles, gentle, like they’re made of glass. All the while, his eyes stay fixed to hers. Asking another question that adds guilt to the list of things snarling up her insides. Asking for forgiveness. But there’s nothing to forgive. Natasha twines their hands together and brings them to rest against the angle of his jawline. Those eyes that could pierce a target from miles away soften, along with the anxious bend in his brow.

“Does this mean you’re done teasing me?” She asks.

“Said I wouldn’t lie to you, songbird.” He leans into her palm, humming to himself for a moment before adding another kiss to the tips of her fingers. 

Nat laughs in spite of herself. Songbird, he says. Another tease turned soft. Soft, like maybe this one could be, too. 

“Come back to bed. We’ll talk about it.”

Nat rubs her thumb against his cheek before she pulls away. “I’ll be there in a minute.”

Mac grumbles, peppering her nose with reproachful kisses.

“I really _do_ have to pee,” she giggles.

“What’ve you been _doing_ in here this whole time? Staring at yourself? Can’t say I blame you.”

“I’ll be right there,” she promises. He grips her in a too-tight hug before he finally relents, sauntering back through the door.

“Fine,” he says, with a playful tilt to his tone. “But I’m bringing back up with me next time if I have to come and get you again.

Nat snickers as he leaves. _That’s_ a threat if she’s ever heard one.

\------

“There she is,” Mac’s voice is warm and crackly like a campfire. 

Natasha slides the door open just sliver to see Mac sitting on the edge of the bed, and Deacon laid back, propped up with a pillow. He sits up too, when he sees her. Sheepishly, she slinks towards them. Deacon’s shirt flutters above her knees when she walks. 

Deacon doesn’t say anything. He keeps his face calm and cool. But when she reaches the end of the bed, he turns his palm face up, and she weaves her fingers through. Two little taps inside his wrist. _We’re okay._ There’s no shift in his gaze or expression, no easy tells like Mac. She brings their hands to rest beneath her chin, and waits, watching.

And then, suddenly, her feet leave the ground and the world slants horizontal.

“Deacon -- oof!”

Deacon yanks her off her toes and drags her down to the bed beside him. Before she’s had a chance to react, he’s tugged her sideways to his chest and clamped a leg over her own to hold her in place. A chill sweeps over her skin as he hikes up her shirt high enough to plant a mess of open-mouthed kisses down her belly. Kisses that tickle something awful. Nat snickers against the sheets, too breathless to beg for mercy. 

Eventually, the bed dips with Mac’s weight when he sinks down behind Deacon, and Deacon sees fit to spare her further torture. Almost. He catches the breath she’s chasing after with the slow, gentle press of his lips against hers. When he pulls away, she tastes the imprint of his smile. He strokes the stray hair from her face.

“Hey,” Deacon whispers conspiratorially, “remember that time Bobby kicked me in the face when we were about to--”

“Hey! That was an accident!” Mac peers down at them from Deacon’s shoulder. He sounds as ruffled as his hair looks, but it hasn’t tarnished the light in his eyes. “There are a lot of _legs_ in this bed, okay?”

Deacon clicks his tongue. “What a brilliant segue into discussion of things that might slip out accidentally when dealing with a _lot of legs_.”

Nat chokes back a laugh. “I thought we determined that was a height and positioning issue.”  
  
Mac buries his snicker into the side of Deacon’s neck. For a moment, there’s the faintest dusting of pink on Deacon’s cheeks. “Right,” he decides. “New segue: things that accidentally slip out of people’s _mouths_ when-- you know, nevermind. I’m just gonna stop while I’m ahead here.”

Natasha snorts against the pillow. Mac throws Deacon a lifeline. “Nat, it’s okay if you don’t say both every time. You don’t have to.”

Nat’s laughter drops in her chest, like autumn leaves drifting to the ground. Her eyes flicker between the two of them in earnest. More reflections, there. Ripples of hope and want and worry.

“Besides,” Mac adds, voice shifting to a husky afterthought. “Deacon’s name sounds good coming out of you. And I know _he_ likes it.”

“He does,” Deacon pipes in. “I asked him.”

“You’re so weird,” Mac shakes his head, but there’s a kiss on Deacon’s forehead that punctuates his true sentiment. “I mean, _maybe_ try to switch off a little bit, I still--”

“You don’t have to worry, Bobby,” Deacon murmurs. “I don’t think either of us are keen on giving up our secret weapon.” He turns to steal a _real_ kiss from Mac. One that lingers. Nat folds her head to Deacon’s chest, humming softly as she admires the view.

That pretty little picture of the three of them. The one that’s hers to keep.

For a while, they lay there, nestled together. Riding the soft crest and fall of breath between each others’ chests. Feeling the familiar pulse of heat and heartbeats. The rhythm of their little sanctuary.

Some time later, gentle hands brush through her hair. Deacon’s voice is smoky again, cloying quiet in her ear.

“Bet we can make her say it _again_.”

There’s lips marking a fresh trail down her throat, lips that promise sultry somethings. And stubble scraping at her hip. Calloused hands smoothing down her leg. Teeth teasing at the skin of her inner thigh. 

Nat sniffs a laugh. “Such _jerks_.”

And then, the sweet sensations stop. Natasha’s eyes flicker open as Deacon pulls her into his lap, situated between them. A wave of heat flashes across her skin. MacCready’s thumb lifts her chin.

Her sniper watches her keenly. “You want that, killer?”

Natasha slides her mouth to suck against the arch of his thumb. “ _Yes._ ”

**Author's Note:**

> For those of you who aren't familiar with my favorite OT3, I do have another one shot posted for them, as well as a few chapters of a longfic I'm working on for Nat/MacCready. Definitely more to come in the future for these three! At some point, I'll come up with a series name for these OT3 one-shots.
> 
> An alternate title for this might have been: My name is Nat and I said one awkward thing and now I'm questioning my existence.
> 
> This little bit of awkwardness stormed into my brain one day and wouldn't let me be until I wrote it down. My favorite thing about them is how, despite all the hurt they carry around, they're in a unique position to understand each other and help each other grow. There's still growing pains and adjustments that come with that, but they help ease each other through those moments.
> 
> Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed, let me know with a kudos or a comment. As always, feel free to say hey on Tumblr. I'm @adventuresofmeghatron.


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